South of Somewhere

I opened the car door, but he blocked me from getting in. "Yep." Why on earth did I tell him about that? I blamed it on being stuck in this facility, day in and day out. I had to admit Deaton helped me pass time with hours of card games and dumb jokes. Once he finally understood nothing more could happen between us, he settled for surface-level friendship. Sort of. Every now and then he'd try coming on to me, but I kept on shutting that down.

"Take me with you." His breath smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee, two things I couldn't stand. I told him time and time again he should quit smoking, but, as with all things, no one told Deaton James what to do. We'd both made it through the program, but it was time for me to move on.

I huffed a laugh. "You get to go jet-setting or laze on a yacht somewhere, while I'm strapped with a year's worth of probation, AA meetings, and random drug tests." I thumped his shoulder, hoping the light banter helped get me out of this. "Trust me. You don't want to go with me."

"Deaton! We have paperwork to do before you can leave!" Standing at the entrance, Gail waved for him to get back inside.

He turned and I took the opportunity to slide inside the car. Before I could get the door shut, he grabbed it. "You got a number?"

"I don't own a phone anymore, remember?" He'd somehow snuck a phone in, like other things we weren't allowed to have, but I stuck to the rules. Prison and rehab will do that to a girl. Scared me straight into obeying everything, that's for dang sure.

"Well, when you get one, add my number first." Deaton placed a torn piece of paper in my hand. "Don't forget me, Sassy." He winked and then walked away.

Once Deaton disappeared inside, I tossed the paper on the ground and shut my door. I know some people formed lasting friendships in rehab, but I couldn't afford to do that with him. He hadn't learned a darn thing while we were stuck here, but I had. Mainly, I'd learned the life I'd been living wasn't living at all, but today I wanted a real shot at it.

My steady—something new to me—index finger pressed the start button, and the sedan came to life. Strapped for cash, I'd have to look into selling it, but I was too weary to even consider that daunting task at the moment. Driving away from this place of reckoning and toward more consequences took all the strength I had.

I put the car in reverse and looked into the rearview mirror. Flinching, I kept my foot on the brake and relived the last time I had looked into that mirror. The scene had been much different than an unassuming parking lot. No, last time the view had been lit with flashing blue lights as my life imploded.

CHAPTER TWO

Between my rusty driving skills and worrying about being pulled over, the trip to Sullivan's Island turned out to be a slow one. While on the interstate, I wondered about the traffic going the opposite direction. Were they on the way out of our little state, going on vacation, a new adventure? My probation prohibited me from leaving South Carolina. Funny how I'd never left this state before but really wanted to now that I'd been told I couldn't. Just like a young'un, I heard my grandmother say in my thoughts. Always wanting what you can't have.

As soon as I spotted the Ben Sawyer swing bridge, thoughts of going elsewhere faded. I rolled the window down and breathed in the savory humid air, so thick the flavor settled on the back of my tongue. It tasted like home. I'd spent more time here with Olla than with my own parents in all the places they'd lived over the years. My parents could be best described as nomads. Although their passion in life dealt with maintaining healthy root systems in the world of botany, they had no desire to lay down roots of their own anywhere in particular.

I took a right at the stop sign and slowly passed the short stretch of quaint shops and restaurants in the heart of the island's business district. On the right, one of the most popular places to eat, Poe's Tavern, already had a line out the door. I continued down Middle Street, edging slowly in the heavy traffic, until reaching Grandma's house. Even though she'd been gone for close to three years now, it would always be Olla's place. Not mine. Not my brother's.

Parking in the driveway, I began smoothing my thumb along each fingernail while taking a moment to just look at the three-story home on stilts named Lady Indigo. Most every home had a unique name showcased on a plaque, either on the porch rail or by the front door. Oleander Cottage, Crossed Fish, Willie's Whistle Stop, and Brady's Bungalow were a few I could recall right off the top of my head. Grandma told me once that in the early days of Sullivan's Island, mail was typically addressed by the name of the house instead of the address. I'd always found that tidbit quite charming.